


Trust Me to Have a Pencil on Hand

by Alexicon



Series: prompted on tumblr [12]
Category: Batman - All Media Types, DCU, Superboy (Comics)
Genre: Alternate Universe - High School, Alternate Universe - No Powers, Fluff, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-10-07
Updated: 2016-10-07
Packaged: 2018-08-20 00:41:47
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,458
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8230289
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Alexicon/pseuds/Alexicon
Summary: Conner keeps three pencils on his desk during math class: his lucky pencil, the spare, and the pencil he loans to Tim Drake every time they have to turn in their work. The rest of the time, Tim uses a pen, because he’s a cocky bastard who apparently never has to erase his notes.





	

**Author's Note:**

> This is a belated prompt from [dickisadickgrayson](http://dickisadickgrayson.tumblr.com) over on tumblr. Prompt was a high school AU with a cool kid/nerd pairing. Enjoy!!

Conner gets his test paper, passed back from the girl in front of him, and waits patiently for what’s coming: one, two --

“Hey, Conner? Can I borrow a pencil?”

Conner keeps three pencils on his desk during math class: his lucky pencil, the spare, and the pencil he loans to Tim Drake every time they have to turn in their work. The rest of the time, Tim uses a pen, because he’s a cocky bastard who apparently never has to erase his notes.

Conner’s maybe a little jealous. But he’s mostly impressed; as far as he knows, Tim’s grades are literally A-okay, which is pretty amazing considering they’re in Honors Precalculus and Conner would be surprised if Tim was even paying attention half the time.

He hands Tim the pencil without saying a word, just like every time. Tim favors him with a winning smile, clearly practicing for when one of his constituents lets him hold their baby, before facing his desk again and getting to work.

Actually, no, Tim would never be a politician. Maybe an astronaut or a fireman, but Tim would probably die of boredom if he weren’t on the track team, and the swim team, and in three other clubs and the student government. Conner had given up on a place in student government in seventh grade, when even the _teachers_ were asking “Who’s Conner Kent?” as they passed his posters in the hallway.

Tim’s pencil breaks at the tip and he stares at in betrayal for a few seconds. Not that Conner’s watching, exactly, but he’s gotten pretty good at looking at Tim Drake from the corner of his eye. Tim hasn’t noticed Conner watching him, anyway, and that’s all that counts.

“Do you have a pencil sharpener?” Tim asks as he turns, then laughs a little. Conner’s already got the sharpener in his hand and he holds it out. And he must be imagining that Tim’s fingers linger on his hand for longer than they have to.

The teacher looks at them forbiddingly, but she heard what Tim said (honestly though, who didn’t, the guy acts like it’s beneath him to learn how to _whisper_ ) which was obviously not cheating, and if telling them talking’s not allowed hasn’t worked the past twelve times, it’s unlikely to work now.

Conner’s pretty sure he’s going to get a good grade on the quiz, but that little bit of pleasure is considerably dampened by his exit from the classroom. He almost drops his books three times, he trips over the chair leg, and he stabs himself in the hand with his pencil -- which is how he realizes that he’d forgotten to get his other pencil back from Tim. They don’t share any other classes today and Conner doesn’t have any way to contact him past finding some pre-trained pigeons to carry messages for him, or maybe a Hogwarts school owl.

Conner seriously considers resting his head against the cold metal of his locker. Someone might ask what’s wrong, though, and Conner just doesn’t have the energy to answer that question right now. Heck, he’s not even letting _himself_ ask that question, let alone _other_ people.

Then someone says from behind him, “I _thought_ this was your locker,” and Conner about jumps out of his skin. It’s Tim, of course, because he’s terrifyingly quiet when he walks and also isn’t great at normal things like saying, ‘Hello,’ or ‘What’s up?’ or ‘Conner, why are you cowering like that?’

Maybe not that last one.

“Uh, yeah,” Conner says, and backs up as much as he can without actually crawling into his locker. Tim somehow makes wearing both straps of his backpack look cool, and Conner has no idea how to deal with someone who holds that kind of power over reality. “Um. What’s up?” he asks, because his cousin Clark may be a total weirdo but his aunt and uncle are raising Conner like a normal kid who asks normal questions.

“I accidentally stole your pencil,” Tim tells him, not sounding in the least apologetic. His eyes are slightly narrowed, like Conner’s one of the more interesting math problems from the quiz today. “I wanted to find you and give it back.”

Conner knows better than to say Tim should keep it. He’d done that the first week of school, and still the next day Tim’d come in and asked to borrow another one. He’d gotten a laugh out of Tim when Conner asked if he’d eaten it, though, so it was worth the loss.

“Yeah, all right,” Conner agrees, and holds his hand out.

Then Tim Drake, seemingly automatically, _shakes his hand_ like Conner’s some business associate of Tim’s guardian.

“What,” Conner says. He’s never seen Tim blushing in his life, unless it was after a ridiculous bit of showing off with sports stuff, but he was seeing it now.

“Uh,” Tim replies, and fumbles in his pocket to pull out the pencil; then, “Crap,” as the whole pocket upends and spits its contents onto the floor.

Conner would help, but he’s a little distracted by the fact that there are two wooden pencils and a mechanical pencil on the floor now.

The wooden pencils both came from him; he recognizes the C he had carved into the side. The mechanical pencil is not his.

“Ah,” says Tim, very quietly.

Conner can’t stop gaping. There’s obviously something he’s not getting here, and he suspects it’s Tim’s...well, Tim’s _everything_.

“Whose pencil is that?” Conner asks. He tells himself it’s stupid to feel jealous of whoever might be loaning Tim pencils in other classes, but still, he adds, “Are you cheating on me and my pencils?” only half-jokingly.

“No, it’s mine,” Tim admits, tone still hushed.

Conner starts to shake his head. “I don’t understand,” he says. “Did you leave it in your locker or something?”

“Or something,” answers Tim. “Conner, it’s hard to explain --”

“Try?” Conner interrupts. He smiles for a second, automatically pleading. “Please?”

Tim sighs. “You would never even look at me if it weren’t for me asking you for pencils in class,” he says.

“That’s not true,” Conner protests.

“The only person you talk to regularly is Bart Allen,” Tim points out. “He’s the only one I’ve seen you start conversations with.”

“Everyone talks to Bart,” says Conner, frowning.

Tim spreads his hands and raises his eyebrows, clearly saying, _that’s my point._

“Do you realize, this is the first time you’ve initiated conversation with me all year?” Tim laughs a little. “Figures it’d be over my cunning plan with the pencils. I swear I had an actual plan, where I’d talk to you more and more and maybe even ask you out someday --”

“Ask me out? On a date?”

Tim makes a pained expression. “I want to get to know you, Conner. I like you. And yes” -- he breaks eye contact -- “on a date. I don’t know if you’re interested --”

“I am,” Conner breaks in. “Interested. Uh, if you’re still interested in asking?”

“Yeah,” Tim says, looking down for the first time in this conversation. If Conner looks carefully (and he is), there’s a hint of color on Tim’s cheeks. “Um. Good. Pick you up at five today?”

“From my house?” Conner asks doubtfully, then feels stupid. Of course Tim knows where his house is; he’s seen Tim and his guardian there at parties sometimes. He thinks Mr. Wayne is friends with his cousin somehow, which is yet another note in the mental ‘Clark is a weirdo’ scrapbook Conner’s got.

“Yes. Do you like pizza?” Tim looks like he’s taking on one of the extra credit ‘it’s okay if you don’t understand this, we haven’t studied it yet,’ questions right now. He looks like he’s about to take on the entire trivia club armed only with a paperclip and a bucket of goldfish. “Or if not, there’s this really good Greek place by the library --”

“Both sound good.” Conner beams at Tim, who’s gazing up at him with the best expression of dazed joy Conner’s seen in a long, long time. “You pick, I’m good with either.”

The bell rings and they both startle and glare up at the ceiling like they’d forgotten they’re in school. Conner definitely had.

He hikes up his backpack on his shoulders and closes his locker. “I’ll see you later,” says Conner, backing away.

“Five o’clock,” Tim confirms, smiling softly. He waves, and Conner turns around to head to the stairs.

Then Conner remembers something very important, and grins.

“Oh, and you can keep the pencil!” Conner shouts over his shoulder, and cackles to himself as he pictures what Tim’s face looks like now.

Conner probably doesn’t even have the right books in his bag. He doesn’t care.

**Author's Note:**

> Find me on [tumblr](http://lexiconallie.tumblr.com)!
> 
> Like/reblog this story [here](http://lexiconallie.tumblr.com/post/151459367878/10-timkon-and-10-d-omg-yes-timkon-and-10) ;D


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